


Trip's Toy Drawer II: Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8065024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Malcolm's frustrated.  Fortunately the cause of his frustration also has a fool-proof solution to his problems...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** Told from Malcolm's POV. No spoilers and a plot to match!

I'm going to kill him. After I've fucked what counts as a brain out through the top of his notoriously numb skull admittedly, but there it is. I am going to cold-bloodedly murder our chief engineer.

_If_ I can make it to his quarters. I didn't realise this Starfleet cotton chafed so much. 

There again, it probably doesn't when your penis isn't half a second ahead of you around every bloody corner. If I don't die of embarrassment before I get there, I'm definitely going to have to kill him.

Oh, he was so pleased with himself. Smug git. Positively purring at his cleverness in sabotaging my office comm. Knowing his moans were rolling round my office like thunder in the mountains and there wasn't a sodding thing I could do to stop them. 

Knowing I could almost touch him as he crouched in the maintenance shaft above my spinning head, his trousers down and that lovely, luscious cock glowing in the fucking dark. Knowing I was sitting there squirming, biting my lip 'til it bled, hard as a Vulcan's heart and incapable of doing anything about it with my whole bloody team flapping about like demented geese outside the door. 

Bastard. I'm not just going to kill him. I'm going to torture him first.

I can still hear his climactic groan echoing through my skull. I've heard nothing but for the last half-hour, which was rather awkward when T'Pol collared me at the turbolift. I think she was droning about remapping the sensor grid. And I'm reasonably sure she knew I wasn't giving her my full and undivided attention.

Two more steps, Reed. And take your hands off your testicles. You're still in a public place, man!

"Hey, babe." His smug gob seems to fill the whole bloody doorway, eyebrows all a-waggle and that Phlox-impersonating grin wrapped around his entire head. I've been half-hard for what feels like forever. At the sight of him - whoosh. It's as if all the blood that was left to lubricate my cranium's drained down toward my balls. 

As if they don't feel like they've been tenderised in a processor for the last hour already!

I feel dizzy. My chest is almost as tight as my wedding tackle. I want to throw him up against the wall and ravish him. I want him to fuck me 'til I bleed. I want...

"That looks painful, Lootenant." While I'm rambling to myself he slinks across the room, already reaching out to relieve me of my clothes. Maybe I won't kill him after all. He' so bloody beautiful, and when he kisses me...

"Oh, yeah. Got you all steamed up, didn't I?" I can't seem to stop myself rubbing against him, rolling my shoulders to help the endless bloody useless layers of uniform slide off my shoulders. His tongue flicks out against the side of my neck.

Just as well he's nippy; my knees buckle so fast I'd have ended up on the floor if he hadn't caught me.

"I got just the thing, darlin', you jus' come with me, okay?"

Isn't that just what I've been wanting to do for the last hour?

He doesn't have to touch me; just a look, the guidance of that low, hypnotic voice is enough to get me onto the bed with my pants at half-mast and my cock fit to burst. I don't need to open my eyes; I know that rustling sound by now. He's in the toy drawer.

Damn you, Tucker! I haven't got time to play!

"You wanna come, dontcha?" I love the way he sounds when he's aroused. Or playful. Or something. That honey drawl sweetens and stretches every syllable. I can feel it oozing through my pores as he looms over me, brandishing a sinuous glass bottle with a bulbous cap. When he swirls it sparks flash in the amber fluid inside, like miniature fireworks going off. It's pretty, but...

"Doctor Trip's got just the thing." When the stopper comes off I can see it's actually the shaped handle of a slim implement, designed to fit snugly into the palm of the hand, and at the end there's a toothbrush-like pad that holds a single gleaming golden droplet like a fiery jewel. "Jus' lay back and let me make you feel good, okay?"

Considering he dribbles the last word straight down my throat I can't exactly answer but never mind; his weight's against me, the rough cloth of his jumpsuit scraped against my chest, and where's his hand going, oh yes, just where I want it, my penis straining to meet those wonderful, dextrous fingers. 

Oh. Oh my.

Pressure. Smack bang against my most sensitive spot, right at the base of that swollen vein. Even as I buck against it I'm aware of something new: a tingling, ticklish sensation spreading outward. When he adjusts the pressure, something inside my brain shorts out.

There's a fizzy feeling running the length of my cock. Bubbles popping down in my balls. Everything's starting to swim and blur around me, the sensation spreading, surging until I'm fizzing everywhere, a champagne bottle about to blow, and now the cork's popped and I'm coming, coming so hard I can't see, dissolved into effervescence and it feels so good, so _fucking_ good, never want it to stop...

*

"Malcolm, you still in there? C'mon darlin' talk to me."

I know what he's asking. I want to oblige, but all that slides over my swollen tongue is a baby's burble. "Good boy," he croons, and I'm conscious - sort of - of movement, of his strong arms shifting me, of the scrape of his jumpsuit against my damp skin. "Told y' it was good."

Concentrate, Malcolm. Eyelids up. It'll be worth the effort to see the soppy grin on the daft bugger's face.

Oh, it is! He's never more perfect than now, gilded in the afterglow, proud as punch that he's turned me into this hopelessly limp rag. "No, don't touch it, I know you're still all tingly down there but trust me, you've gotta let it be."

His long fingers wrapped around my wrist have stopped me scratching that residual little buzz, and now I'm at least semi-conscious I can pinpoint it exactly - the underside of my flopping phallus, right on the vein, precisely where he applied his magic potion. While the rest of me's floating, sensation dulled by that perfect post-orgasmic shock, it's still frothing like a glass of forgotten ice-cream and lemonade. It's a pleasant sensation; I wouldn't mind a bit more, but...

"You'll be sensitive for a couple of hours." That's the voice of experience if ever I've heard it, and by the way he's blushing I suspect Trip's learned this the hard way. "Figure it's worth it, though."

"Oh, absolutely." When he shifts I realise there's a damp patch - more than one, as a matter of fact - staining his uniform. Somehow the knowledge it's my come only increases that delectable little tickly feeling.

He's not bothered when I point it out, wriggling around the bed to work the top half down to his waist. "I was gonna change before grabbin' some dinner anyway. You feel like comin' with me?"

It's an open goal and he knows it, eyebrows a-waggle as he waits for the smutty reply. "Oh, give me an hour or so and I'll think about it," I say, heaving myself into a semi-recumbent position against the pillows. The glint of a golden spark catches my eye and I have to stretch over him, lifting the curvaceous bottle - much heavier than I expected - to eye level. "Where did you find this, anyway?"

"A little market stall back on Axtar Prime." That was two years ago and the damn thing's hardly been touched! "I must've been lookin' a tad _uncomfortable_ : the trader came runnin' round like his ass was on fire wavin' it at me and gabblin' like an angry goose. Hell, it took the UT five minutes to convert three sentences!

"He called it _The Breath of Life_ \- a bunch of hocus-pocus mysticism if y' ask me..."

"I don't suppose he did."

He's humouring me. "Me, I call it champagne for the cock. Comes in real handy after a whole day scrunched up in a maintenance shaft with the guy you're crazy for but who'll never give you a look."

Oh, I remember those days, and getting off alone was never this satisfying: nor this fast. "I could've done with a bottle of that stuff myself."

"Aw, Malcolm!" Every time I even hint at how long I yearned for him Trip lights up; as if he can't quite believe what he's hearing. I understand. I probably do the same thing, after all. "I love you, darlin'. You wanna stay here and I'll go grab us some dinner?"

It's tempting, but I want to be seen with him. "No, give me a minute to make myself respectable - and you'd better get changed while we're about it."

I have to plant a kiss on him while I'm scrambling over, and frankly I can see what he means about the next few hours: when I happen to brush his flank the wrong way I get another soft buzz of that fizzy feeling running all the way up my shaft. It's rather fun, actually.

I wonder... "Er, Trip? Have you ever tried this, umm - well, you know..."

Talk about misplaced prudery. This man's heard me begging him to fuck me in a million different ways, yet I stumble and stammer over the obvious question. His brows draw together. His lips purse. Then the light bulb pops up over his head, and he laughs.

"Hell, no!" he yelps, dragging me into a brisk, almost buddyish, hug. "I don't wanna think what'd happen if I tried slippin' a few drops up _there_! Sonofabitch! Get that stuff on your prostate and you'd be stuck to the ceilin' for a week!"

That actually sounds a lot more appealing than he intended. Still, as my back passage ripples from the mere prospect I suppose it would impact somewhat on one's daily routine to have a permanent tickle in that department.

He's watching me with his head on one side and a grin just pulling those succulent lips. "Grab a quick bite then come back here?" he suggests, low and gravelled and speaking straight to my nether regions. It seems I'm not the only one still feeling the effects of instant gratification.

My eyes rest on the gleaming bottle of fire by his pillow. It's wonderful, yes, but I don't need alien magic potions when I have Charles Tucker the Third eyeing me like that. "Sounds good."

Who am I kidding? It sounds bloody magnificent!


End file.
